Sloane was smarting. His mother had died, come to the war even though she had been ordered to stay behind; now his sister had left him. She was supporting a queen who wasn’t even a queen anymore, and wouldn’t care about her. He padded into the clearing, seconds behind Estelle, the Dracarae, who was beating her wings with excitement. “Hello,” he heard her say breathlessly, “are you the one who deposed Irina? That’s not easy, that’s for sure. Wow, are you going to incite another war? That’d be cool. Hey, where’s Belladonna and Queen Irina’s whelps? Well, I guess she’s not queen anymore.” She cackled with this last statement. Sloane shrank away from the scaled woman. He wasn’t sure about her. She radiated malice and anger. Maybe a bit of triumph too. Ugh, he wished Delilah was here. She would reassure him. But no, half the pack had run. Left.
Sloane jumped as thunder struck the ocean. About thirty seconds later, thunder boomed and he saw mist coiling up into the air. His hackles stood on end. The noise was overwhelming. Clouds rolled, tossed, and roiled. He hunched to the ground. He hated storms. That was why the Storm Queen was not his favorite alphess. She’d fried a wolf with her lightning, for honesty’s sake. And only she was capable of this. Only she. . . .
For some reason the way the lightning curved and twisted was invoking a sense of freedom in his mind. Sloane shook his head. No. He was delusional. Lightning didn’t evoke feelings.
Estelle had her wings drawn back. Her ears were pinned. Rain began to soak the earth. Clouds covered the sky.
The Storm Queen was alive and kicking.

“I bet it’s so nice up in heaven since you’ve arrived . . .”